Revolutionary or Terrorist?
by Solstice White
Summary: Mort Rouge le Squelette is a failed Revolutionary in a world where France is communist. She managed to escape to Gotham, and well, one thing leads to another and she meets the Joker. Wayne/OC Joker/OC, please review.
1. Prologe: Mort Rouge la Squelette

Mort Rouge la Squelette

Revolutionary or Terrorist?

France fell to Communism, and Mort was an orphan when it happened. To cut spending, orphanages were shut down, countless left on the streets to die. Mort struggled to survive, find food and money. She fought on a daily basis. She grew up whispering in peoples ear's, making them question their government. When Morte got older, she met many friends across the country. Orphans, Rich Kids, scum of the street. She formed a resistance, broke everyone out of jails, who later joined their cause. There were three hundred and twenty six who followed her, and two of them were rats.

They fought, all under her. She was their General.

They all died, and she got every single one of their names tattooed on her back, save the two rats who were her most trusted Lieutenants. She gets the ink refreshed every year on the anniversary of their deaths. She's given up on France, and came to America illegally. She wants to prevent the same thing from happening in the U.S that happened in France, and moved to Gotham to try and live.

She is an alcoholic, proud, hates bureaucrats and is straight to the point. She gambles and sleeps most times at bar's. She has no tolerance for people who annoy her, and is pretty naïve when it comes to the English language. She doesn't like people anymore and doesn't trust anyone. She drinks herself to sleep, and tends to be a loud and angry drunk.

In France, she was so close to succeeding, that the victory wine had already been opened. That's because Morte is an excellent strategist. Another was that they avoided all civilian contact, choosing to leave them out so they could keep their support and not spill any innocent blood. It worked, and to this day, she scorns anyone who catches civilians in the cross fire.

But, her moral compass doesn't always point north. She'll steal to survive, and has no qualms about killing anyone who's asking for it. But, she isn't a murderer. Back in France, they called her a terrorist. She has a brand on her wrist, a tattoo numbered 000001, so everyone could see she was undesirable number one. Mort hates it when people called her over-zealous, or an anarchist. She especially hates it when people call her a terrorist and will most likely kill anyone who tries to refer to her as such.

She likes telling her story to anyone who would listen so they could learn her mistakes. But Mort finds the only people who've heard bit's of her life were two people. The rest she didn't find responsible enough. Though, she doesn't like talking about prison. Before she jumped ship to the U.S.A, she was put in prison. They shaved her head, and starved her, as well as put her though various other tortures. What they were trying to do, was brainwash her, so they could win back the popularity with the common people. Mort never broke though. She took it, and spat in their faces.

Mort Rouge la Squelette also does a lot of odd jobs. She's a mercenary (though reluctant and very rude…Not many want to hire her because of her standards and attitude.), plays guitar at her favorite bar (where she drinks herself to sleep nearly every night), and every once and awhile works for a restaurant and movie theater. Gary, the owner of the bar she was currently in, was going down to the docks to get some absinth (which is illegal in the U.S) and found her.

She's very proud. She's angry at the world and hates it when people take things for advantage.

She absolutely will not compromise in any argument. Ever.

Mort will also die for any one of her friends. She nearly did, in France. Her best friends choose to save their own skin's three hours before the final battle, and she's never forgiven them for it. She even curses them when she's drunk. In fact, she blames Loup and Cosette for the death of her army. Mort blames them for everything.

When she was five, and the orphanage closed down, she had to run away from the cities or be shot on the street. The government frowned upon street scum. She met Loup and Cosette when she was seven, and they were her family. She protected them fiercely, and asked for nothing in return. A large number of the scar's on her body comes from protecting them.

Mort Rouge la Squellte was currently sitting in a bar, drinking her twelfth shot. She poured another, looking at it apprehensively.

"Stupides, inutiles, bâtards trahissent ... Loup et Cosette …" She grumbled, her brown eyes narrowing. She was wearing an old, red, marching band jacket, elegant black embroidery lining it. She had the collar up, her short black hair gently gracing across it. She was wearing tattered blue jeans, and a black shirt. It was the same thing she always wore, and she refused to publically wear anything different.

"Hey, More, you gonna lock up?" The bartender asked. She gripped the empty shot-glass tightly.

"'Ow many times do I 'ave to tell you, Old Man? It's MORT!" Mort snarled. The older man chuckled, and patted her arm fondly.

"Yeah, whatever. Key's are on the counter, lock up when you feel like it, and don't drink all my whiskey." Gary said, walking upstairs.

"Au revoir, tell your wife 'ello," She called, her words thickly accented. He grumbled, and she shook her head, frowning playfully. "Lazy 'ass old man," She muttered. Mort sat on the bar to look out at dark streets of Gotham, snow lazily falling. She snorted.

She should've been basking in the glories of France, not this shit hole.

Mort smiled, and grabbed the bottle of cheap Canadian whiskey. She took a long swig from it, before she started singing.

"Oh, such a sad, sad tale I 'ave to tell, I've rode to 'heaven and been damned to 'hell. I sang my prayers, I've done no wrong, but Jesus doesn't care…" Her heavily accented voice rang out. Her voice was pleasant, but the emotion behind the words was staggering. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at the tattoo on her wrist.

Then the door opened and she covered her wrist with her jacket.

She didn't even turn her head.

"Get 'ze fuck out, we're closed." She said coldly, taking another swig of whiskey.

"Doesn't look-" A strange voice began, and she snapped. The bottle went flying, and in a flash she was up off of the bar and throwing barstools at the man with no resolve. He dodged them easily, after all, Mort was pretty drunk.

Then she stopped. The man had clown paint on his face. She smiled.

"Ah, Monsieur Pietre, sil vous plait moi fureue." Mort amended quickly. Then she started swaying and fell down, looking at the ceiling. The clown giggled horribly and said something, but Mort's mind was mottled and she forgot how to understand English.

She hopped up swaying, and glaring at him horribly. She must've remembered why she was angry with him in the first.

"Get out clown!'Ou are not at 'ze cirque, and we are closed," Mort yelled, grabbing another bar stool. He giggled again, and her anger flared. She pulled out her gun, and pointed it at him, loading it.

"Now, uh, you're not going to shoot me." The clown said, and she paused.

"Of course I will shoot you, zilly clown. 'Oo do you think I am?" Mort asked rhetorically. The clown giggled.

"A drunk wash-out?" He offered, and she marched up to him. She was furious at being insulted.

"'Ow dare you," She said, her voice a harsh snarl that slapped the quiet atmosphere around them. The clown man glared at her, daring her to do it while he smiled manically.

Then she brought down her pistol across his face, before punching him solidly in his stomach. She grabbed his greasy hair, and slammed his face into her knee before throwing him back towards the door.

"Get out of 'ere, scum. 'You are not welcome 'ere." Mort said, her voice dripping with venom. How _dare_ some American whelp, who's life has been nothing but roses and freedom, _have the gall_ to call her that? Especially a clown bastard.

Needless to say, Mort Rouge la Squelette was no longer drunk.

She was considering killing the clown for uttering such an insult.

Then he giggled. And giggled. And giggled. Her light brown eyes slid to look at his face, taking it in better. Something was definitely off about him. And she didn't like it.

"What's so damn funny clown?" Mort asked, glaring at the clown man spitefully. In all honesty, Mort felt a little stupid for even letting the man coming in here in the first place. First off, he sobered her up, and secondly, she wasn't really sure if he was a cirque clown.

He had on a purple trench coat, green vest and purple button up shirt with a green tie. Also, in the dim light of the bar, she started to notice twin scar's on his face, curling up from his lips like a grotesque smile. In fact, his shrieking laughter was starting to bother her. It filled the room, and made a cold chill creep down her spine. In case you didn't know, Mort doesn't like it when things scare her.

Because she tends to beat the shit out of them.


	2. Never Call Me That

Never Call Me That

Revolutionary or Terrorist?

I was so angry, it was like a poison that burned through my veins. Who was this stupid clown?! His laughing was starting to…bother me. And nothing bothered me. I was put in 'hell' and escaped, nothing could be worse than that.

"You, doll face, you're just **so** wrapped up in your rules!" He laughed, and my brow's drew together. Doll, face?

"You know nothzing Monsieur Clown." I said, my voice a vicious hiss. I pointed towards the door. "Out." I hissed, my voice venomous. Two more men walked in with clown masks on, and I snorted crossing my arms.

"Of course stupid Americains have time to waste wearing clown masks, if only I had that free time," I muttered, and the man in the purple jacket shrugged, grinning.

"Er, what do you want us to do boss?" A man asked, looking at me oddly.

"I know! Get ze hell out of here, and don't let the door hit your ass on ze way out!"

"I've got a better idea boys," The man said, pulling out an automatic rifle and shooting all of them. I clenched my fists, and glared, anger surging through me.

"How dare you kill your own men!" I yelled, running up to him and punching him repeatedly. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them behind my back, making me lean back in a compromising position.

"I, uh, do what I want doll."

I kneed him in the balls, and crouched, curling my body so I could head butt him. He jerked back, releasing my wrists. I grabbed one of my empty bottles from the table and was just about to smash it I threw it hard at the clown. He moved to the side, and it shattered harmlessly against the wall.

The clown started laughing, and I punched him again. I kicked him twice, and took a stunning hit to the face. I frowned, wiping the blood off my split lip.

The chairs were fallen behind him, and suddenly I had an idea.

I rushed him, crouched low, and hit him solidly in the stomach with my shoulder, using my own momentum and the angle of the fallen chair to toss him out the door and onto his ass. I stood proudly, and locked the door, smiling smugly.

"'Ave fun in ze cold asshole!" I called, walking back inside. I turned the television on, and I stacked the chairs.

"Today in France, Loup Gage and Cosette got married. They were the famous heroes who, a year and half ago, helped bring down the famous terrorist Mort Rouge." A woman said, before the scene changed to a man standing in beautiful Paris.

"Liar's," I said, my voice a hiss against the air, and I walked to the bar, taking a swig of the near empty bottle of whiskey.

"Yes, I'm here with them now. How do you feel about getting married with Mort still out there somewhere?" He asked, and Cosette turned to the camera. Her orange hair was pinned up in an elegant bun, pearls glinting in it, as her blue eyes twinkled.

"Whore. You where those when your people starve?" I said again, my accent becoming cold, my fists clenching. Dimly I noted that the glass broke.

"Of course not. Mort Rouge is a terrorist. And she is 'not even ze good one. Besides, ve are happy now," She said and I heard a crunch.

"Betrayer! Whore! Filthy scum of ze street, how dare you!" I said, something crunching again.

"All Mort wanted to do was bring down ze government of France. She brainwashed three hundred people, all she iz, iz a terrorist obsessed with anarchy," Loup said, his black hair slicked back, green eyes shining as he laughed.

"LIAR! YOU SON OF A BITCH! HOW DARE YOU CALL MOI AN ANARCHIST?! A TERRORIST?! YOU LIAR, MAGGOT, SCUM, FILTH! SPINLESS, MURDERER!" I roared before they put up a picture of me, when my hair was long. I was still in my red jacket, my cheeks weren't so hollow and I was smiling with an old inn keeper who sheltered me. No doubt they'd killed her when he picture had been turned over.

I had gripped the whiskey bottle so tight that it had broken, and I had squeezed the shards so tight that they'd cut into my skin, some going through my hand. I quickly walked over and turned the t.v off, taking a moment to collect my scattered thoughts in the darkness.

I grabbed another bottle of whiskey, and drank it until I passed out, laying on my back on the bar.

To this day, I'll never understand why they betrayed me. Cosette and Loup were the same as me, orphans on the street. We fought to stay hidden each night we slept on the street, we fought for our lives. They were going to help me over throw the government, and set up something more fair. It was another revolution, and it would have worked! We had the people's support, no innocent blood was spilt! We were only one battle away from success.

But that battle never came. Instead, my brave army was killed in their sleep like pigs. It was a massacre, and only five of them survived to run away with me. We lasted a day, holed up in an old factory, before they broke in and shot them down. I was taken to 'hell', a horrible prison in Versailles, and was kept in a cell that light would not dare venture.

Tears dripped down my face, and dimly I cracked open my eyes to see a blurry figure shoot the glass door, stepping though. I groaned, gripped the near empty whiskey bottle tighter and dimly took another drink of it, falling back asleep.

Someone pulled at my whiskey, and I jerked my arm before taking a swing at them. Suddenly the thing I was sleeping on bumped up. I jolted awake to see I was in a van.

There were men with clown masks around me. They were all armed.

I sat still, it was still night. I still had my whiskey. My (still drunk) mind raced, running over any and all different scenarios.

I finally found one that would work. I threw my bottle at the windshield in front of me, and it shattered. The car swerved, and I grabbed the back of the clowns' necks next to me, flinging them forward. I reached for the sliding door and wretched it open. My hair whipped back, and I was about to jump out and risk great injury when I heard a click and cold steel pressed against the side of my head.

"Now, uh, beautiful, back in the car." The clown man from earlier said. He had been sitting in the passenger seat, and I hadn't seen him. I turned, and spat at him.

"Make me, clown man!" I said, daring him to shoot me. I would welcome death at this point, joined my fallen army with pride. I wouldn't have to worry about anything, stupid selfish people could sit in the fire they made.

The clown man screeched with unpleasant laughter and I turned my face back to the rapidly moving streets and building. I tensed to jump out, and the clown man shot the driver. The car swerved, and I was tossed back, the city lights and drug dealers leaving my vision as my back hit the car floor painfully. The door slid closed with a thud, and another door opened. I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw the clown man dump the driver out into the night, and resume driving. I looked down, and realized I was lying on dead clown men. My eyes hardened and I grabbed their guns.

My eyes narrowed and we entered a tunnel. It would be impossible for me to jump out.

"So what's your name-ah?" The clown man asked, and I stepped up to the front seat where I could have better chances of taking control of the vehicle.

"Mort Rouge la Squelette." I said on beat, my eyes narrowed. My finger's tightened over the guns I hid in my red jacket. "And you?"

All the damn clown did was squeal with laughter. It was irritating and very frustrating. I whipped both guns out of my jacket, and loaded them, pointing them towards the clown.

"Monsieur, I would suggest you stop the car." I said, my accent thick and cold. The clown looked at me from out of the corner of his eye and smiled. His eyes twinkled manically, and suddenly, I felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me.

"**Do it.**" He said, his voice dark. I scowled, my brown eyes narrowing. I was absolutely not about to do ANYTHING this stupid, freak clown told me to do. So I threw the guns in back, and tried to strangle him, while simultaneously grabbing the wheel. He punched me hard in the gut, but I didn't let go.

It might sound like I was choking him, and he was slowly losing consciousness. I wasn't. My hand's weren't very big, and I couldn't strangle him with only one hand (the other trying to keep the car on the road). What I was doing, was grabbing his greasy green hair, and yanking him away from me. I attempted to smash his head into the window, but (out of nowhere, I swear!) he whipped out a knife and made to stab me in the stomach.

In a heartbeat, I let him and the steering wheel go, moving to the side so he only nicked my side. It still stung, and warm blood dripped down my side.

My fist collided with his face, and I slammed my foot down on his knee. He giggled, and the hand holding the knife flew up as he was distracted with getting both my foot and my fist off of him. I quickly darted my other hand forward, and grabbed the knife from him, before pulling back into the passenger seat, crouching and holding the knife in front of me. I was grinning wickedly. I had won this round.

"Au Revior Monsieur Pietre!" I said smugly, pulling the door handle and leaning out to escape. The clown grabbed my ankle, yanking me back in.

"Ah ta ta ta! No, no, no. You stay here-ah." He said, gripping my ankles painfully as I kicked and swore under my breath. My jaw clenched and my eyebrow's drew together in anger as I glared at him and struggled.

We took a sharp left into the middle of nowhere, a mile or so away from the city, and I had to grab the dash to keep myself from flopping around. The clown took the time to readjust his grip, pulling me further into van. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop, making my head hit the dash with a 'clunk'. I swore in French, and suddenly was pushed out the open door. I turned myself and my mind raced trying to find a plan. I gripped the knife, which the clown seemed to have forgotten about, and crouched, ready to fight.

We were by the bay, and you could see the city bridge stretching across the sky. There was a big warehouse that looked broken down, but I couldn't see anyone else in the darkness. I heard creepy laughter and I took the time to punch out the window of the open passenger door.

"Awww, come on out doll-face…" He said slowly, the tone of his voice dark and intimating. That's fine. Two can play this game, clown.

I scraped up some pebbles and tossed them under the car, the noise making it seem like I had crawled under the car. I heard him walk back around, and I saw from the broken window, the clown man duck down in front of the van. I grinned, and rolled back into the van silently, searching for the gun's I tossed away earlier.

"Hmmm. Where'd ya go…" He said, and I could hear that creepy ass smile in his voice.

I stepped out of the van, and was about to shoot where he was standing before, but I didn't see him. I glanced down to check the bullets and saw purple pants from the other side of the passenger door.

My blood boiled. It was bad sport to copy an enemy's tactic's.

I shot the passenger door several times with the first gun before throwing it at his feet.

Then I saw his feet weren't there anymore. My eyes widened, then narrowed as I went from surprised to angry.  
Something tackled me from the van, and both the knife and the gun dropped out of my hands as my body hit the rocky ground, his heavy body landing on mine. I winced, and snarled, new found strength pouring though my hungover body as I kneed him in the kidneys several times.

My fists collided with his face, and knocked him back. I slid out from under him quickly, grabbing the knife, and glaring at him. If he had fucked up my tattoo's, I'll fucking kill him. I'll fucking use his skull as a toothbrush holder once I win back France for their people.

I couldn't die here.

I still had things to do, plans to make. No one will be slaves to their country any longer.

I ran at the clown, knife in front of me, when he shot me.

It only grazed me, because as soon as I saw the gun, I instinctively leaned to the side away from it.

"That's cheating, Monsieur." I growled, gripping my arm to stop the blood from pouring out of it. He laughed, and kicked me hard in the stomach. It wasn't too bad. None of the wounds were, I had been through worse.

What really sucked ass though, was when his boot collided with my head, and he knocked me out. Again.

Freak.

I came to tied to a chair in what I guessed was the warehouse. Luckily, I recovered from being knocked out pretty quickly since my incarceration. There was a metal table in front of me and a picture on it.

I'd been though this before. It was old. Someone was trying to break me, again.

Were they really that stupid? In hell, I had all , and I do mean _all_ hope taken away from me when I was in 'hell'. Even if I'd escaped, they'd marked my wrist so I could never have a family. They'd scarred my body more than it already was, not to mention the other things they did to assure that if I escaped I wouldn't have a future.

I supposed they'd succeeded. I was a drunk washout, as the clown aptly put it. My day's were spent drinking, or finding whores who hadn't given up all their money, or working at some mundane place where I still drowned my sorrow's with whiskey. I couldn't even bring myself to drink wine, or eat healthily.

A door opened, and it was the stupid clown.

"You're already awake? Wow, im-press-ive." The clown's voice sounded from the door.

"When I get out of 'ere clown, I'm going to gouge out your vocal cords." I said, my accent heavy as I stumbled over the word vocal.

The clown, walked in and sat down across from me, fidgeting unpleasantly.

He looked at me before letting out a high pitched string of laughter. I stared at him my eye brow's raised in confusion. What the fuck?

"You, uh, still don't know who I am, do ya?" He asked, and I leaned back, testing the ropes that held my wrists the arms of the chair.

"An insane clown who murder's people?" I suggested, my accent lilting to show I was supremely annoyed. His dark eyes looked at me maliciously, burning out the dark paint that darkened his eye sockets and eyebrows. I glared back, unabashed and ready to fight.

"Don't say that…don't say, _**that,**_ like you're one of them. You're not, you're not. I can tell." The clown said, leaning forward, his voice dark like the shadow he cast over me. I leaned forward, teeth bared.

"What if I am one of them, Monsieur Pietre? You know not-zing about me. _Not-zing._" I said lowly, my short hair dipping as I leaned back.

"I know about that _pretty_ tattoo on your wrist…And that you're French. Does that mean that you were a criminal? 000001, that's pretty up there. You must've done something _pre-t-t-y _bad, huh?" He started, his voice conversational as he leaned forward on his elbow's and gestured with his hands. I stared in his eyes focused, and not at all distracted by his movements.

I stayed silent, looking at him with an unimpressed expression. He'd have to do much worse for me to tell him anything.

"Uhh, I bet you were a _terrorist-_" He started, and I jerked, my wrists twisting painfully against the rope.

"Don't ever call me that ever, you freak!" I hissed, leaning as far towards him as possible, wishing I could tear him to pieces. I was livid, my blood roaring and hot as it burned through my body. How dare he.

"I'm not a, I'm not a freak…" He mumbled, his eyes were hard and hateful. "Don't call me that sweet-cheeks." The clown growled menacingly. I didn't move, just glared back with every inch of anger and hatred I felt.

"And I am **not **terrorist clown." I said from between my teeth. "What the hell do you even want, clown?"

He smiled, like he never thought I'd ask.

"What do I want? What do I want… I don't know. What do you think I want dolllll?"

"I don't know. I don't care." I answered automatically. It was a defense I'd built in prison, when they'd ask me how I felt. What I thought. What I wanted. The truth is, they did indeed break me. Just not in the way they wanted. They didn't make me crazy, like the freak in front of me. They took away my future, snatched away my personal interests.

But then again, being the head General of Revolutionaries, working towards winning freedom your whole life could probably wreck your personality.

"You do." He said, interrupting my thoughts. I shook my head, letting genuine regret cover my features. I let my dark, straight hair move over my face to hide it.

"No. I really don't Monsieur Pietre. My whole future was taken from me, and all that's left for me is hell." I murmured, my accent thick. I leaned back and smiled.

"So if you're going to kill me, go ahead. I do not care."

"Oh, no, no, noooo-ah. I'm not going to _kill_ you. I mean, you're just so interesting! I bet you work for money, and I've got one spot open for you…" He said, laughing.

"I do not zink so. I don't even know what you do, besides kill your own men." I argued, leaning back so the yellow lamp light could play gently across my face.

"I'm an agent of, uh **chaos.** People are always so wrapped up in their little lives, with their cheating husbands and wives that they can't **take** it when something unexpected happens**.**" He started, his voice high pitched, before it dropped low and became menacing. It was like he was in a mania, he started fidgeting uncontrollably, gesturing wildly with his hands. I was starting to understand how deep the shit I was in was. "Everything's all plans, and order. You throw in a little anarchy… And. Well. Everyone just starts going **craaazy.** They just can't take it," He went on, before erupted into giggles that became low growls. "People say, that I'm crazy. No, no, no, no, no. I just see things the way they really are. They're the ones who're cra-zy. Hehahehheeehhaha." He broke off, erupting into shrieking laughter that made my spine crawl.

"You're an anarchist." I said, my voice flat. He grinned, his scar's lifting up.

"You're not one of those_ rules _people are you? Like the cops, are ya?" He asked and I just stared at him my face closed.

"Even if I did like you, Monsieur, I wouldn't work for you."

"Hoooow about we play a little game, huh? I like games, you look like you like games." He started, and my brow darkened as I tried to contemplate what he was getting at.

"You see, how about I blow up that little bar you were sleeping in and have someone slip a little, uh, personal information about you to the police?" He said, starting off conversationally before transforming into something dark and malicious. My eyes widened. I didn't care if he turned me over. I could break out, just like I did before, and give Cosette and Loup what was coming to them. But I couldn't let Gary and his wife be blown to fucking bits!

Marie had just gotten pregnant! I couldn't let their child die.

But could I work for an anarchist? Some scum off the street like him?

My eyes drifted down as I considered it, and I stared at my hands.

"Fine. You win this round Monsieur Clown. I expect to be paid though. Whiskey isn't cheap." I said, glaring at the man hatefully.

He grinned, getting up and putting an arm around my shoulders, gripping me tightly.

"I knew ya'd come around…" The clown said, before letting me go and tossing me a card.

"That's my business card. You can stay here until I need you to do something," He said distantly as he closed the door, leaving me alone. I leaned forward to look at the card. It was a simple playing card, a joker card. I leaned back, confusion playing on my face. Joker?

I felt a bad sense of foreboding. Maybe I shouldn't have come to America after all. Mexico was a pretty ideal place to hide, if I could get there.

My eyes flashed to the door, anger burning in them. Well I certainly couldn't go now, not with that insane clown threatening to blow Marie and Gary straight to hell. Wonderful. It seems that I was again trapped and imprisoned. It just seemed that this time, my chains were my friends.


	3. Sacrifice is Still a Sin

Sacrifice is Still a Sin

Revolutionary or Terrorist?

**A/N to Anais, I'm really glad you liked it! Thanks for letting me know about the la/le thing, I'll go back and change it. Also, I know her name does sound strange, and it's very halting, but there's a back story as to why she calls herself that, and it's also an allusion to Edgar Allen Poe's 'Masque of the Red Death' Mort taking after Red Death; it's also an allusion to the phantom of the opera, where the Phantom goes to the Masquerade as the Red Death. On a separate note, the articulation and pronunciation of her name also really suppose to sound wrong, and halting, (but thanks a lot for telling me, and for giving me the suggestion anyway, I hope I wasn't at all racist I was really worried about offending anyone reading this…And I hope you don't mind that I made your country communist. SORRY.) P.S, shout out to Cosette. That damn pineapple isn't making it in this story unless someone goes to hell. ;) P.S as to why her last name is Squelette, it was a joke I'll explain at a later date.**

Finally a man in the clown mask unlocked the door and cut me out of the chair. He didn't say anything, and neither did I. In all honesty, I was in very deep thought. I needed to plan, I needed to somehow kill the clown. Or incarcerate him until he was needed. Maybe I could set him loose in France.

Considering the way the idiot clown killed off his own men, I'd only serve to convince civilians to side with the government. I wanted the opposite. The masked man stood in front of me, waiting patiently, his mask a painted smile. I wondered briefly how long he'd last. Then I wondered how much longer I'd be alive with this freak. What the hell was 'interesting' even suppose to mean, anyway? Maybe he just thought my brand was interesting. Even so…

I needed to clear my head. Seeing Cosette and Loup, well. That was already messing with me, dragging back things that I had buried with alcohol. I sighed, and glared at the masked man.

"I need to go out. I'll be back." I said flatly, my accent dying down some. The masked man shrugged, looking awkward. "Uhh, you'll have to talk to the boss," The man answered reluctantly, his voice deep. I raised an eyebrow at him, my face closed off of any emotion. I gestured towards the door, and he fumbled for a moment, before walking out. I followed him, and watched his movements carefully. Something about him struck me as odd. He didn't seem stupid, just…unaware. Like he was listening to someone else…

He may be crazy, as in, mentally ill. It could happen, and anarchists don't really attract sane people…

I walked down the hall, and the news was on, again. The same story playing. I flinched as I heard the word 'terrorist'. Bah, terrorist. It was the worst insult you could've possibly ever said to me. I was not a terrorist. I didn't want to strike fear into the hearts of my fellow people. I wanted to inspire them, open their eyes! Make them see, what they've been forced to give up! I wanted them to see, that we should all be able to choose, to start out our lives as street scum, and work our way up, instead of being shot on the street. I wanted them to feel, how wrong it was, that one civilian could buy butter, or soda, or alcohol!

It should not be what our country forces us to do; but what we force our country to do. They should be _our_ voice; our cry! If we call out in fear and anger, they should echo us, softly carrying our voice up into the light of hope. We should not cower, not hide in the shadow's from guns and fat men who drink the finest wine, and butter their bread with the richest butter! We should not be slaves! It is the government, it is the king, or president, or dictator, or emperor; who should be slaves to their people! It is we who will prosper, and it is we who will suffer while they rest comfortably at _our_ expense. How dare they, enslave us, throw us to the dog's, when they, yes _they_, eat like the king's they mock! Too spineless to even face the light, they're fat and bloated like _slugs_ and maggots, feeding on the decay of _their _people.

It is _them_, those bureaucrats, who are the terrorists, not I! I did not cower behind my army when they came, stealing our lives in night like the thieving bastards they were. I stood and fought, no, we stood and fought. We, the so called terrorists, died trying to save an enslaved country from their own rulers. I did not ask them to rally, I did not ask them to put there families at risk. All who joined me, joined me with solemn faces, awaiting the dawn of our freedom! They did not cower, they did not weep, or swear. They stood proud, and praised our cause to God and the heavens above.

Who am I, to let 300 heroes be left dead, with no one to avenge them? If I had to start here, I would. I may not be able to do a thing in my home country, but I could start here.

I am there General, regardless of whether or not my army has fallen.

The tired look in my eye faded, as I thought deeply. I could work with this clown…for now. If I worked with him, I could slip in little changes in tactic's that would lessen the damage. I could work here, and have an impact there. I couldn't do all the work. The people needed to rally, they needed to fight. Not I. I was just the bird, the messenger. I whispered, and opened eyes, and I've fought my battles. If they wanted change, they had to seize the moment, they had to show their gall, their backbone.

Finally, we came to a room at the end of the hall. It looked like it'd gone through heavy abuse, and the man cleared his through.

"Uhh, Joker…the girl wants to talk to you." He said, and I glared. In the back of my mind, I took note of that name. It must've been what the idiot clown man wanted to be called.

"I am not a girl." I said, my voice a cold whip. I heard giggling from the room, and mysteriously, I got more annoyed. Hmm, no connection there at _all._

"Oh, so you're a boy?" The clown, or Joker called, stepping out into the hallway.

"Only if you are a woman, Monsieur." I replied emotionlessly. "But I believe at this point in my life, I'm not a girl, but a woman." I finished, my eyes hard and my voice chilled. He leaned forward on the door frame, looking at me with dark brown eyes, no particular emotion playing across them. Before he laughed, dark and manically. I frowned, and sniffed distastefully. He was definitely strange, for a clown bastard.

"You're hair short enough." He cut back, after his chilling laughter had settled down. My fists clenched, and I glared. I really, really wanted to shove my foot up his ass.

"You've got ze makeup for it." I snapped back, moving forward some, my body ridged. "But, as offended I am, zat is not why I am here, Monsieur. I need to go and gather my things." I finished coldly, taking a hold of my temper, and rubbing my wrist where the brand was. He nodded and I left scarcely hearing the words he spoke to me. A heavy sadness fell on me and I remembered my friends. Not Gary, not Marie. My friends, the ones who stood with me. I could hear, distantly, as I walked through the dark halls the warehouse, exiting out into the night.

_"Remember my child; Sacrifice is still a sin."_ I heard the priests voice echo, when I was beaten severely for stealing a chocolate bar for Cosette. She wanted it, it was just right there. I almost died, if I hadn't escaped, the Vestes Noir would've killed me. For stealing the candy bar, and for being street garbage. I hid in the church, and the priest found me. I didn't know where Loup and Cosette had run off to, but I was bleeding so badly I couldn't have cared.

He patched me up, saying nothing.

My lips tightened and thoughts of what happened to the priest as I walked down the dark streets of the foreign city. It was so much more…sinister than any of France's cities. Maybe it was the drug dealers, the rapists and murder's that seemed to line their streets like dirty asphalt. Maybe it just was the corruption…

Let's face it. I was a drunk, but not stupid. Most of their policemen were paid off.

I sighed, brushing it off. It wasn't my problem, I was living in this country because I was a coward who couldn't die with her own army. But that was probably going to be solved soon, with that clown bastard. Was Joker his real name?

I frowned, walking into Gary's bar. The sun was coming up and no one had bothered to fix the glass. I got to the bar and jotted down a quick note for his wife when she woke up before leaving to the back room to get the few things I owned.

It's sad to think that all I had to my name was a chess board (with the pieces), and as many newspaper clippings I'd had of the French government, Loup and Cosette. To say I wasn't tracking them would be a complete and utter lie.

I dug out five dollars from my bag and decided to take a walk around town before I went back to the warehouse. I just wanted to see the dawn. Once you lost you're freedom to even watch something as simple as a sunrise, it made you always want to take advantage of it.

I stood still, letting the warm light grace my hardened face, letting the grief wash over me. Losing so many friends, it was a grief that never left you. It sat, in the absence of your friends, and sang about the tomorrow that never came. It fed you regret, and played a ballad of sorrow and failure. It reminisced about the good times, when wine was sweet, and things were in motion. When love, could be won and lost fairly, just like life. Things weren't harsh, my childhood was forgotten, my scars seemed to fade away, and no one called me garbage, or street scum.

I heard a rustling, and my eyes opened slowly. To my left was a small child, just a boy. He was looking up at me, his face dirty and his eyes piercing. They seemed much older, his eyes. I could tell easily that he'd had a hard life. His hair was a reddish brown, and his skin was tanned. I twisted to look at him, my lip curling into a scowl.

"What do you want, garçon?" I asked, my accent again making my words cut and dry. The boy frowned, before smiling grandly, coming up beside me.

"You should be asking what I can do for you, miss! My name is Jake." He replied cheerfully, the emotion of his voice not reaching his eyes. I smiled, and let him walk me through the town, ignoring his tattered clothes and sorry jacket, even in the cold air.

"Oh, I zee. And you are going to give me a tour, garçon? " I asked, just a little sarcastic. I let him lead me to a part of the city where black, sleek sky scrapers pierced the sky, casting long dark shadows on us.

"It's be my duty as a citizen of Gotham!" Jake insisted, and I raised my eyebrow.

"What a kind Monsieur you are. Well, what is there to see in 'zis…um, how would you put it, wonderfully evil city?" I asked again, as the boy lead me into a dark sky scraper.

The receptionist scowled, and she pointed a talon towards the door, hissing English so fast, I couldn't quite understand her.

The boy stuck his tounge out at her, and I laughed.

"This is part of Wayne Enterprise. If you're going to be staying in this city, you gotta know about Mr. Wayne. He's the prince of Gotham, parents were murdered when he was a kid, and he's done a lot for us." The garcon explained, walking me further inside the building, many people working professionally, their visages cool in the beautiful building. We walked upstairs, and strangely no one stopped us. Mr. Wayne must've been a pretty arrogant man, not to expect someone to come after one of his buildings.

"That's pretty interesting," I commented, following the red headed boy, and looking out at the city, shifting my bag on my shoulder.

"That's not even the best part of Gotham," The boy declared proudly, and I smiled sincerely.

"We've got the Batman looking out for us now, he even saved me from the Scarecrow." The boy began, pulling up his loose, dirty, pants proudly. "When Crane went and dumped his fear stuff into the air, and went around killing people and watchin' people kill each other, he saved us." The boy said, stopping to look out at the city from the window, when a snort stretched across the air.

"The Batman is bad news. Better left to the police." A deep voice said, and the boy turned at the same time I did, seeing a handsome man in a dark suit, staring out at the city before staring at me with piercing eyes. The boy sniffed.

"Geez Mr. Wayne, you're messing up my job." Jake said, feigning offense. Wayne took out a twenty and handed it to Jake, crouching down.

"Go grab yourself some food." He said, handing Jake the money. Jake bowed to me, and ran off swiftly. I turned to go as well, when Wayne spoke.

"You know, security is on their way right now. Apparently, you entered the building and threatened the receptionist?"

"Monsieur Wayne, if I threatened your receptionist, she would not 'ave been able to call security." I remarked, my accent laden voice dismissive and airy. I had things to do anyway, who knows what that crazy ass clown fucker would do to me when I got back. I waved dismissively with my hand and left, ignoring Wayne when he called after me. I had things to do, better things to do than distract some rich playboy for a few minutes.

First, I needed to strategize. I couldn't let things here fail, and I couldn't change anything in France. At least, not yet. But, I could very easily avenge my army.

I needed to find them. Cosette and Loup.

I grinned, my skin stretching tight over my face, reminding me that at some point I'd have to steal some food, or ask the clown for some.

Preferrably, I'd rather steal than ask Joker for anything. I'm absolutely not going to lower myself to asking for his help.

It was a pretty long walk back to the warehouse.

I enjoyed it though, my hangover from the night before fading away. My bones creaked as I stretched, enjoying the warm dawn light in the frigid winter air. I stopped for a minute, on the bridge to the warehouse. I shifted my pack, looking over at a forsaken looking tower on an island that red 'Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane'. Hmm. What an odd place to put an insane asylum. Usually, as far as I'm aware, American's tended to keep the insane far away from their cities.

I shrugged it off, and kept walking. It was still early dawn when I'd gotten back and I'd already started to drink the alcohol I'd nicked from Gary (he wouldn't notice anyway…).

When I walked into the warehouse, and all the silent lackey's looked at me with grim and horrified faces, I knew what was coming. I'd probably get shot for taking so long. It wouldn't bother me too much. I'd been though worse.

Joker pranced out, his steps ironically betraying the anger in his dark eyes. They glittered manically with an energy that I couldn't place. I crossed my arms and sneered defiantly.

"Scared me there for a second. Thought you weren't, uh, coming back." He said, the timbre of his voice granting me the knowledge that I wasn't going to be walking out of this encounter unharmed. I didn't really care either way. Pain is pain. After awhile, it gets old.

"I keep my word, clown. I zaid I was not going to run, and I meant it." I replied, intentionally being rude. He sauntered closer, every step weighted with tension as everyone kept their eyes unconsciously glued to the clown. The room practically stunk of fear and anticipation, every breath drawn out and silent, everyone tensed except me. Joker stopped about a foot away from me.

"You're funnyyyyyy doll. Thing is, I don't like to be kept waiting." He said, and my eyes widened in shock.

I my eyes slowly slid from his bloody knife to the slash in my stomach. Blood dripped sluggishly down the front of my ruined shirt, and I looked over to the shocked faces of the men.

Their ages (and mental stability) ranged, as did their appearances. But they all wore the same expression; shock and disbelief. My fist shot out instinctively and hit the Joker's face a split second later. I grinned, as he fell back.

"What, vous didn't think I could take something so minor as a tiny 'ittle cut?" I asked, when I realized they were looking at the amount of blood I was losing. I sighed, and became aware of the sting. I tore my lacey old shirt and wrapped it around the wound as the Joker giggled at the faces of his men, then at me. I didn't understand this American. He was so…crazy? No. He was…Indescribable. You couldn't put it into words, the way the air stilled around him, yet he seemed to be thinking a thousand kilometer's a minute, made fear creep down your spine.

It was a horrible feeling. Tactically speaking, I watch everyone. I weigh their actions, to see possible outcomes, and I always act accordingly if I need to. Joker, though, was infuriating in that aspect. I didn't know what to expect…yet. I would figure him out eventually. Or at least learn something, some remote echo of a pattern.

"Well beau-ti-ful, you've got a few hours before you go out. Might wanna clean yourself up, I, uh, don't know how clean that knife was. You're rooms the last on the right" He said, smiling and pointing. I shrugged and turned to leave.

"I've been though worse." I grumbled, shifting the bag when it brushed my bullet wound.

"Aww, what a poor broken dolly-" The clown began, his voice close behind me, I could feel the ghost of his breath disturb my hair.

His comment made anger ricochet and crash within me. I whipped around, fury burning in my light brown eyes. I raised my arm, adrenaline making my body numb, and tried to back hand him across the face.

"'Ow dare you." I hissed from between snarling and clenched teeth. He caught my wrist and squeezed to the point I could feel my bones creak. I was so angry, I didn't feel any pain. Joker stared at me darkly, his eyes burning with an intense fire and for a second, I wondered what would happen. That feeling soon faded as I ripped my wrist out of his grasp and stormed away. I had things to do.

He laughed at me, and my pride flared. If I'd had better accesses to the old piece of shit gun in my bag, I would've shot him between the eyes. But, thanks to that freak, I was bleeding and needed to get that fixed before I bled out and became weak.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I'd have to learn to compromise some to deal with that freak. It was easy to consider…but harder to carry out. People always called me stubborn, prideful. Hmph.

Better to have some pride than to be a weak, cowardly, or spineless.

I would never be any of those things. Ever.

I walked down the dark hallway, a sense of despair washing over me. A sense of loss as I found my room and turned the doorknob; walking into the room. I closed the door behind me quietly. All that was in the room was a desk a chair and some blankets on the floor. I went and sat at the desk, taking out the chess pieces, and arranging them.

I was both the king and the queen. Right now, I was the king, the black king. On the side of wrong. No, right now I was the knight, having limited movements, restrained, protecting the Joker…

Who wasn't a chess piece at all. He couldn't be symbolized as such. I'd have to bend the rules some to figure it…

He was the black bishop, who sat next to the king. The king was a figure head, the bishop calling the shots. I moved the king forward, next to the knight (me) and the bishop took the king's old space. The black King could be the police… so I moved them directly one space away from me, unable to take my dark knight.

Loup and Cosette would be the castles, hiding behind the white queen and king, who were the secretive government of France. I doubt most American's even knew that France was communist. About twenty years ago, during one of their political standoff's, they closed off and fabricated a lot of video and news feed, so that way the communists didn't have to worry about anyone coming to the people's aid. No one has been allowed out of the country (legally, or with express permission from 'the government'). Even the people have no idea what's going on with the rest of the world now.

In fact, I don't even know what my government looks like. It's all kept under EXTREAMLY tight wraps. Whoever's calling the shots is unfortunately intelligent, and won't allow his/her face or name to be released to the public, or any government officials. I can't tell you how many failed interrogations I went through; from foot soldiers to captains. No one knew anything.

It made planning difficult, much like now. I stared down at the chessboard, the pieces a mess of black and white that only made sense to me. It was the beginnings of a dark war, on that chess board. I crossed my fingers and leaned on the table, resting my head on them.

I needed to get on the right fucking side, and kick away from this freak.

I also needed to figure out whether or not I was going to be sacrificed, or whether I was going to sacrifice myself. Then I shrugged it off, and stood up walking towards the corner of the room, sitting down and bringing my knee's to my chest, sighing.

I reached for my bag, and drug out the alcohol as pain stung my chest again. It didn't matter to me whether or not I was going to live.

Because, just like the good Father said to me. Sacrifice is still a Sin.

I drank some of the whiskey, felt it sear my throat as tears slowly dripped down my face. I was reminded, of a song I hear when I was a girl. It was in English, from a play about a failed revolution. I made sure to memorize each and every word, even though I couldn't understand it. I was still in the orphanage… The irony is that it seemed to fit my life so well now. I remember stubbornly trying not to cry as I heard the sorrow stricken lyrics as a child. How they inspired me, made me feel something in the grey hell before everything went to shit.

"There's a grief that can't be spoken. There's a pain, that goes on and on. Empty chairs, and empty tables, where my friends will meet no more. Oh my friends, my friends forgive me. That I live, and I go on. There's a grief that can't be spoken, and a pain that goes on and on." I sang, sadness radiating like a soft and feathery light from my voice, yet cascading in my chest like stormy seas. "My friends, my _friends!_ Don't ask me! What your sacrifice was for. Empty chairs, and empty tables, where my friends will sit, no more." I finished, my throat creaking with the strain.

I sniffed, and wiped my tears, feeling angry. I was stupid, for letting such things get to me. It was worthless, completely fucking useless to worry about things. To feel like this, I was becoming pathetic.

These thoughts faded as the bottle in my hand slipped down to sit on the floor and my head leaned back against the wall. My eyes drifted shut, and I sighed, letting my drunken and numb mind slip into a restless sleep.


	4. Jack of All Trades and a Knight

Jack of All Trades and a Knight

Revolutionary or Terrorist?

I woke up when my door opened, jerking upwards to a standing position, trying to ignore the lack of gravity. It was the freak. He just fucking_ waltzed_ in here.

I glared at him, standing up straighter and choking some. I would've thrown up, except there was just nothing left in my stomach. I winced, sore from the freak's punches, not to mention I most likely haven't slept for very long. The knife wound on my stomach, thankfully, hadn't been too deep and didn't reopen.

"Time to roll Princess," Joker sang, walking towards me with elaborate steps. I sneered, and straightened my jacket, moving around him out the door.

"I'm not a Princess." I snapped, waiting for the freak in the hall. He was really starting to piss me off. More than he had a few hours ago.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyways _princess_ we've got some mob bosses to go and steal from. Doesn't that just sound fu-n?" He continued, undeterred, walking out into the hallway with me and slinging his arm around my shoulder. He shook me a few times, and I frowned.

"You're suicidal, aren't you?" I asked rhetorically, my lips pinched into a frown as my accented words echoed slightly in the silent warehouse. Monsieur Pietre giggled, his voice twisting around in the air unpleasantly.

I looked away from him, the expression on the clown's face starting to turn my stomach. There was something definitely wrong with him, besides the scar's and makeup. I jerked out from under his arm and walked independently glaring at the hallway in front of me. There were no window's and I couldn't tell what time it was. My stomach started to ache, before shooting pain raced through my abdomen, reminding me that I seriously needed some fucking food.

I waved it off easily. Judge me if you want, but walking beside an insane clown with freaky scar's kind of ruins your appetite. I didn't need to be getting fat anyway.

"What mob bosses are we going after, Jo-ker?" I asked, stumbling over the word 'Joker' so it came out like Joe Ker. My brow drew together in displeasure. Stupid language. It was one of the hardest fucking languages to learn; I knew I should've run to Mexico. Tequila and easy speaking; damn that sounded close to paradise right now.

I didn't even glance over at the clown as he hummed and twitched while we were walking. What a maniac. I'd defiantly rather deal with drug cartel's and gangs than this _freak_.

My eyes hardened as I noticed I'd been using that word more often when referring to him. It was probably because Joker was a freak.

"Hmmm. I like that. I do. Joe Ker. Hee, heee."

"Whatever you say, Monsieur Pietre." I muttered dismissively, disregarding him completely. This was getting beyond tiresome.

"Why do you even need me to go with you?" I asked petulantly, louder and ruder, my accent finally dying down some. He glanced at me, slowing down some and sticking his hands in his pockets. I took note of this, and watched him closely. God knows what the maniac had in his jacket pockets.

But in all honesty, if I cut my rudeness and bullshit, I was actually curious to know. I was a strategist, not some common thug. I wasn't paid enough to keep my mouth shut. In fact, I haven't been paid at all…

"I see it in you, you're a planner. You peg everything down, sort everything out." He began, and I snorted. That was pretty obvious. I'm pretty sure a blind and deaf man could've told me such things. I tended to wear my heart on my sleeve. Or my anger. Joker's dark eyes turned to me, his face straight and still. Both were overcome with an intensity I've only seen in…fanatics. I think anarchists are worst than fanatics. They're not predictable (obviously). They don't have anything to use against them. They're unseen, alien obstacles in my path.

"Oh really, Monsieur. Next you'll tell me my whole life story." I bit back, my accent again thickening. Finally, I could see the door leading outside from between the faded yellow ceiling lights.

He smiled but the intense air around us prevailed; stagnant and dense. "I liked your hair better longer."

I stopped, my muscles involuntarily tensing as anger flared up along with other meaningless emotions. I started walking again my walk just as smooth and collected as I was a moment before. The clown looked at me from the corner of his eye again and snickered. My eyes hardened, shutting the world out. Of course, he'd seen the news. For a moment, I wondered if the scar's on my stomach shone too, from what they did to me in that God forsaken prison. I brushed the thought aside. After all, the blood probably covered them up.

"You'd look better without make-up." I shot back, my voice vicious and cutting. His dark eyes flashed, and I stepped back half a step as his fist flashed towards me. He missed, and I grinned triumphantly before walking forward out the door. It was daylight, the sky around me cold, stormy and unfeeling; the gloating bitch it always was. Even when I was half-way around the world.

My eyes flickered down to where my shirt was torn and haphazardly tied across my stomach. I'd have to get that fixed.

I sighed; the warm exhale fogging lazily in the air before dissipating. I heard the door close, and I waited patiently. My face was calm, but beneath the clever mask my mind was running over every possibility; looking for a loop hole, any means to dump this clown and run. Proud as I was, I was still a strategist. I played the cards I was dealt to my advantage, no matter their numbers or their faces.

"Time to go, heeeheheheee. Time._ To. Go-_ah." Joker muttered, walking from beside me to the white van in front of us. Someone had already either replaced the window or the van.

I followed carefully, tugging my red jacket closer against the cold. I needed to get away from this freak. I climbed into the passenger seat of the van, put on my seat belt and crossed my arms. I could hear the clown muttering about something before erupting into insane shrieks that I assumed was laughter.

In all honesty, I wasn't paying attention. My fingers gently patted my red jacket over where I kept my gun. Like I was going to run around with a freak without a gun.

I was thinking hard about my next course of action. Maybe if I knocked Giggles out and ran? No. No, that'd be very stupid; he'd just go after Marie and Gary. Can't screw over the people who've given me a place to stay…

My light brown eyes hardened. There was that 'Batman' character. Hmph. This city was filled to the brim with freaks. Supposedly he was the hero. But I wasn't going to stake my life on that claim. After all, I hadn't seen him, or heard of him; and the idea of a vigilante running around in the name of justice was just a little too good to be true.

I sat still, my body numbing as I thought deeper.

Why did we need to go see the mob bosses anyway? Was I supposed to just be muscle? Something slapped me, and my gun appeared in my hand with a flash of dark grey pointed at the Joker.

"What iz zit?" I asked coldly, my eyes narrowed and my lips pulled into a displeased frown. He glanced at me, letting go of the steering wheel to shrug and smile innocently. The car swerved, but my arm stayed very still, the gun loaded and pointed at Monsieur Pietre's head. Through the rush of my anger and pride, I noticed his black and white face reflected in the dark metal.

"You weren't paying attention, doll. You should watch out. Could, uh, get you killed." He started, and my eyes narrowed into a fierce glare.

"Or you. Hit me again, and I don't care 'oo you blow up; I'll shoot you." I shot, my voice chilling, a French accent lilting the words eerily.

"Do it." Joker said back, his voice a low drawl while his dark eyes glinted dangerously. My eyes darkened in return, my arm tightening. I said nothing; giving away nothing.

"_Do it. _Come on, come on. Shoot me." Joker continued, and I was tempted. I could shoot him, it would take care of a lot of my problems. It's not like I haven't killed people before…

But that was during a war.

My brow's drew together, and my finger tightened over the trigger. It would be really easy. I'd probably save a lot of people.

Cosette's face flashed in my head. It was years ago, when she wasn't caked in make-up and dolled up to look like the pretty puppet that she is now. I was seventeen, and my army was growing. I was in an abandoned warehouse, and there was a captain I'd captured tied to a chair, crying. I held the same gun, loaded and pointed at him. I was going to shoot him. Killing him would solve my problems. Cosette egged me on, telling me that I _had_ to kill him. Loup said nothing, just watched from beside Cosette.

I wanted to listen to them; I wanted to listen to myself. After all, the man was evil. He would've killed me if he had the chance. The place I lived in was a kill or be killed situation; right? That's how it always was. I'd run on the street, and if and Noir Vestes saw, I had to shoot them before they shot me.

But something about shooting a man who was tied down and couldn't fight back didn't seem right. It felt the opposite of right, in fact. I lowered my gun, unloading it, before I smashed him across the face to knock him out.

Killing someone like that wasn't honorable. It was murder.

I was not a murderer. I was not some dog on the street who killed because someone kicked it one too many times.

The memory faded, and I lowered the gun. I'd kill this clown some other time, when he had a gun to fight back with.

"Heeehehee, I knew you couldn't do it. Just couldn't kill me." He giggled, and the car swerved violently.

I put the gun back under my red jacket, and crossed my arms.

"No, Monsieur. I can kill you; I'm just not a murderer." I muttered, turning to look out the window to my side. I watched the dull yellow street lights pass us, piercing the gray light of the cold day, and I stayed still as the car swerved violently, and Joker cackled in response. Finally we screeched to a stop in front of a building. There were no window's and it looked empty and desolate. Joker got out of the car, and so did I, following inside a step behind him.

My eyes were bright and alert as we stepped inside, and there was an Asian man speaking. Joker went to saunter in there, but I tugged on his coat tail.

He turned, his eyes dangerous and posing a question and I stared back, undeterred.

I put a finger to my lips, telling him to stay quiet and wait. He stayed still, and his dark eyes slid forward to the door where the voice was coming from. There was static laced in with the man's voice, and grumblings.

Apparently the Joker had better hearing than I, and grinned unpleasantly.

Hmph. I wonder what they're scared of; to be having a meeting in _broad daylight._

"Who would be stupid enough to steal from us?" An accented voice asked. He had a horribly ineloquent Russian accent that made me a little offended.

"Two-bit whack-job. Wears a purple suit and make-up. He's not the problem, he's a nobody." Another man said. I could practically see the dismissal and arrogance in his voice. He wasn't at all like the Russian voice. He wasn't the voice that sounded scared…no that was the Asian man. "The problem is, our money's being tracked by the cops." The voice continued, his voice changing from dismissal to annoyance.

"Thanks to Mr. Maroni's well played sources, we've found that their police have infiltrated our banks using marked bills and are planning to seize your funds today. And since the enthusiastic new D.A has put all my competitor's out of business; I'm your only option." The Asian man said to the room, the slight fear ebbing away into confidence.

"So what are you proposing?" A much deeper voice asked. My lip pulled back in distaste. This voice spoke like a fat, rich pimp and sounded as if he had a chip on his shoulder. That annoyed me more than the illiterate Russian.

"That we bring all money to one safe location. Not a bank." The Asian answered.

"Where then?" The pimp one practically spat.

"No one can know but me. If the police were to gain leverage over one of you, everyone's money would be at stake." The Asian replied, his voice silky and suave.

"What would stop them from getting to you?" The Russian asked. My eyebrow raised. It was an intelligent question. Unlike the pimp who was just being untrustworthy, the Russian had a point.

"I am in Hong Kong. Far from Dent's jurisdiction. And China would not sell out one of it's own."

"How soon can we move the money?" The arrogant and cold one all but growled. Obviously, none of the criminals were happy with their circumstances.

"I already have." The Chinese man answered. "For obvious reasons, I couldn't wait for your permission. Rest assured, your money is safe." He once again replied. I held back a snort. What an over confidant bastard.

"OOoo, a _squealer_ if I ever heard one…" He murmured before dragging me with him into the shitty room. I didn't even hold back my sneer as the Joker laughed haltingly.

I yanked my arm back with a snarl and stepped back into the shadows of the warehouse. Why were a bunch of high class, rich criminals hiding out in a shitty apartment cafeteria thing? The place looked like it had metal detectors in the back, along with a buffet thing with empty metal tray's set up on them. Nice..

My eyes twinkled and I smirked even as the Joker walked up to them, the light making his face eerie. I pulled my red collar over my face to hide it. My stomach clenched. Ugh, I still needed fucking food… Not to mention the place we were in reminded me of a cafeteria. Talk about lame and unclassy.

"Ha, ha, ho hee, ho haaa. And I thought _my _jokes were bad." He said, his voice uncharacteristically flat as he turned to survey all the mobsters. As expected, there was a Russian, an Italian, an African American and the Chinese man was on the television.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't have my boy here pull your head off," The pimp looking mobster said, and another dark-skinned man next to him got up threateningly. I almost winced. This was not going to end well.

"How about a magic trick?" Monsieur Pietre asked, stepping closer to the table and further into the light. The pimp's eye twitched in disgust and annoyance as the Joker whipped out a pencil and stood it up haphazardly onto the table. My brown eyes narrowed as I prepared myself for any number of scenarios. "I'm gonna make this pencil _disappear._" He finished, and because I was so focused on the Joker, I hadn't noticed the pimp's henchman moving forward towards the psycho.

Almost too fast for my eyes to follow, the Joker's purple gloved hand shot out and firmly grabbed the man by the back of the neck, slamming him towards the table so that the pencil stabbed him in the head, and he died. By the time the man fell back, the Joker had extravagantly seated himself onto the cheap metal chair.

"Taa-_Daa!_" Joker said, his voice a flat growl against the silence. "It's _gooooone._" I didn't miss the fear that crept into everyone's faces at the mere sound of his voice. From my angle, I couldn't make out his facial expression, but from the other's, I'm glad I couldn't.

Despite all my self control and acting skills, my eyes widened in shock and awe. Not that I was at all impressed by him, don't get me wrong.

I was a proud woman. I would kill, if necessary. I would steal. Because although I am proud, I am above all else a_ survivor._ My life has been war. I was born a soldier. Our front was the paved streets of France. I could feel another war brewing on these streets.

When I took in the fear on these proud gangster's faces, I knew I'd picked the wrong side.

"Oh, and by the way, the suit wasn't cheap. You should know, you bought it." He continued, almost conversationally, and all too calmly for my tastes. The dark skinned pimp shot up and raised his fist while the Joker just raised his brow amused.

"Enough. I want to hear proposition." The Russian man interrupted, and the man grudgingly sat, glaring at both the Russian and Joker in the shitty fluorescent light. Joker pointed at the Russian before looking back at the pimp.

"Let's wind the clocks back a year. These cops and lawyers wouldn't dare cross any of you." Joker started, gesturing with his gloved hand. I didn't buy into that. He was trying to distract them with his hands to get them to identify with them. They weren't going to sympathize with a make-up wearing freak, so he was trying to get them to look at his hands and listen to his words so they would forget he was a psychopathic freak.

The Russian, Asian, and Italian bought into it. The pimp didn't. He glared hatefully at the Joker's face, his dark eyes burning with a sneer.

"I mean…what happened. Ya…You get your balls drop off? Hmm? Hmm?" Joker said, his shoulders hunching forward. His voice gave away nothing, which made me frown. "You see, a guy like _me_-" He went on, his voice starting to sound almost normal. Well, normal for him until the pimp cut in.

"A freak." The pimp said, his voice a deep whip across the silence. I leaned back, observing. The pimp was underestimating Joker. He was a loose cannon, actually, he was a loose cannon in a war with only sticks and stones. There were snickers from his ami's, and I wondered how many of them would last.

I called the man a freak because I had the balls too, and I had nothing to lose. If he wanted to kill me, fine. I'd cut off my leg to spite my knee.

"You see a guy like me…" He began before he smacked his lips unpleasantly. "You see, I know why you have these little, aherm, 'group therapy secessions' in broad daylight. I know why, you're afraid to go out at night. The Batman." His voice dropped off into a dark, sinister void. "The Batman has shown Gotham your true colors un-for-tun-ate-ly…Hmph. Dent, he's just the beginning." He said, leaning forward onto the table and taking a deep breath. "And, uh, as for the, uh, television's so called plan, Batman has no jurisdiction."

"He'll find him and make him_ squeal_." Joker went on, his voice gaining an intensity that rocked and chilled the very air in the room. "I know the squealers when I seem them. And…"

The Asian cut off of the television, his eyes showing fear before the T.V went black.

"What you propose." The Russian asked again. Joker brushed his greasy, stringy green hair back and shrugged his suit back onto his shoulders.

"It's simple, we, uh, kill the **Batman**."

Everyone laughed while I stared. The petite garcon told me that the Batman was the only one keeping this city from turning into another shit hole. I was definitely going to have to switch sides. As my resolve grew stronger, I remembered Marie and Gary. I couldn't let them die. My jaw clenched while everyone laughed, my mind ran over the possibilities.

"If it's so simple, why haven't you done it already?" The gray haired Italian man asked petulantly, narrowing his eyes. Joker leaned forward again and it seemed as if the room grew darker between the men.

"If you're good at something, never do it for free." He replied.

"How much you want?" The Russian asked, accepting the deal easily and leaning back.

"Uhhhhhh, half." Joker answered lowering his voice, and again people snickered and muttered things. Stupid, stupid mobsters didn't know they were dealing with a lawless monster.

"Freak."

Joker's shoulders hunched, and the air around him thickened and darkened. "I'm not, I'm not a _frea-k._" He growled.

I had to hold back a frown. These morons were playing with fire, and obviously didn't know it. That soon faded as I imagined the possibilities of what might happen. The pimp started to rub his fingers together angrily, gritting his teeth.

"If we don't deal with this now, soon, little Gambol here," Joker started, pointing at the pimp who was still glaring viciously at the freak. "Won't be able to get a nickel for his Grandma." He finished, dark humor creeping into his voice when the man slapped his hands down on the table. My eyes flashed and I was behind the Joker in a flash; my gun raised as the dark skinned man who hovered, crouched, his henchmen freezing with him. They hadn't even drawn their weapons. Mine was already loaded and aimed point blank for Gambol's head.

"Now, now kind Monsieur's. Why don't 'ou just sit 'back down, eh?" I asked darkly, my eyes fierce in the light. My arm never wavered, and I stared the angry pimp down. Everyone started, and Joker jumped up behind me, opening his suit jacket as the others went for their guns.

"Ah-ta-ta-tattaaa. Let's not blow this out of proportion." He chided, and everyone immediately backed away quickly. My gun followed Gambol, my aim never slipping from his head. Whatever the clown had in his jacket scared the shit out of all these mobsters', so I'm guessing a bomb.

My face didn't change from it's stony expression and my arm never twitched, the weapon still firmly aimed at Gambol's head, but I inwardly snorted.

"You think you can steal from us and just walk away?" Gambol asked, his dark eyes flickering to my gun.

"Yeah." The Joker deadpanned.

"I'm putting the word out. 500 grand for this clown dead. A million for him alive so I can teach him some manners first." Gambol growled menacingly, his pimp suit impeccable even though the man had began to sweat.

"So, uh, listen. Why don't I just give you my card, and give me a call when you start wanting to take things a lit-tle more seriously. Here's. My. Card." Joker said, completely and calmly ignoring Gambol to fumble in his pockets. He pulled out something and tossed a joker card onto the metal table before us. Everyone's eyes but Gambol's flickered to it. He tugged on my red jacket to pull me out of the room, kicking the door open behind us.

I didn't turn around, and kept my gun on Gambol. If any of them, he was a little too stuck up, and I'd have to worry about him more than the others.

We entered the darkness by the door, and Joker smiled sinisterly before tugging me through the door and out onto the street. I pocketed my gun quickly, and unloaded it before we got back into the van.

"That was funnnnn." He said to me, starting the car. My eyes narrowed as I glared at him with my light brown eyes.

"I beg to 'diff-ur." I snapped.


	5. Hate or Insantiy

Hate or Insanity

Revolutionary or Terrorist?

I had a bad feeling when I got into the van, and the fucking clown was basically jumping out of his own skin. That feeling only got worse when he started hitting things with the car. My brow darkened as I attempted to restrain my anger. All in all, it wasn't working very well, and I was scowling, watching the gloomy day pass us by while I tried to ignore Joker's horrible driving and his giggles.

Let's face it, they were pretty fucking hard to ignore.

So when the car finally did come to an abrupt halt, I was out in no time, my hands in my jacket pockets, fingering my gun.

"Well, I'll say _that_ was fun." Joker said, smoothing back his greasy green hair and walking over to stand next to me.

"I would'zent define fun as scaring a bunch o' spineless cowards." I retorted, my voice coming out a vicious snarl. To say I was pissed was an understatement.

He turned, his eyes dark, the permanent smile on his face casting a sinister light.

Maybe, if I wasn't so angry, his expression would've made me pause. But I didn't, because I didn't care at this point. I was just so done with the fucking freak.

"That's, uh, funny isn't it? Seeing as you're a terroris-_t,_" He said, his voice a deranged rush cut across the air. My light brown eyes narrowed and locked onto his dark ones.

"I. Am. Not. A. Terrorist." I bit out, my jaw clenching as my body stiffened automatically.

"_Reallly_? Then what are you, huh? Cause, uhm, you know, I'd call-" He started again, but I cut him off.

"You are insane, and I 'oo not care what you'd call me." I lashed out, my voice seeming to have a sharp edge to it. His eyes seemed to darken, blending in with the dark makeup caked onto his face. The air around us became heavy, but in truth I didn't really notice it.

Because I was angry. I was angry at a lot of things lately; and this _freak_ with makeup was dragging it all out and making it worse.

Not to mention he _dared_ to call me a terrorist. _How_ fucking_ dare_ he.

He stepped closer, hunching over some. "You know, you've got a mouth on you. I, uh, like that. But, you know, you need to learn when to keep it _shu_-t." Monsieur Pietre said darkly.

"What makes you think I'm craaaaaazy?" He finished, his voice jumping back to it's almost neutral timbre.

"You kill your own men. You're a murderer." I spat back, my accent thickening, glaring at him hatefully as my blood pounded through me.

"Takes one to know one, huh doll?" He said, his voice dropping off to be low and dangerous again. My hand flashed out and I slapped him.

"'Ow dare 'ou call me a murderer." I said, my voice an acidic whip. He punched me back and I took it without flinching. To be fair, my face did jerk back I was just too furious to feel it.

"Then, uh, what do you call killing a bunch of people, huh?" Joker asked, his voice gloating.

My eyes narrowed. "'Ou wouldn't understand you sick fuck, what my life has been." I bit back, raising my hand to hit him again. He grabbed my wrist, and squeezed hard.

"You wanna know how I got these scar's?" He asked, his voice lighter. I scowled.

"Not unless you 'wanna' know how I got mine." I hissed back, stepping on his foot hard and bringing my elbow across his face. It contacted with an audible crack, and he let go of my wrist.

I started to back up when he hit me hard in the stomach, winding me and opening the old knife wound. I fell to the ground, him on top of me as pulled out a knife and put it in my mouth. I felt the cool metal threateningly push at the corner of my lip, and I glared up viciously.

"You know, you've got some fight in you. I _like_ that-ah. See, it's just too bad you can't just _break_ some rules." He said, his voice lighter as I struggled to either hurt him or get out from under him.

"'Ou know, you've got some stu-pid in you. That pisses me off." I snarled, careful of the knife. I could feel my anger damn near rip through my veins, numbing me to the cold and to my stomach wound. Regardless of my anger, my mind was racing over any and any possibility to escape. Finally, it clicked, and I kept the emotion from my face, and bided my time waiting for the right moment.

"There goes that mouth-_ah_ again." He said, his voice drawn together in a sing-song tone. I jerked my knee up and it impacted solidly with his gut. I turned my head quickly, biting the knife and ripping it out of Joker's hands tossing it to the side. I sat up grinning, head butting the psycho before throwing him off and rolling to the side. My eyes flashed up to Monsieur Pietre's when I felt a cold blade at my throat. I ground my teeth together as I realized my error. I forgot to kick the knife away when I pushed him off me.

The knife bit in deeper and blood gently crept down my throat. My grin stayed, and I spread my arms wide.

"What, you zink I'm scared of death, Monsieur? Go 'head. Kill me. I do not care." I said, honestly. The pressure on my throat lessened, and but his expression under the eerie makeup didn't change. My head started to feel light from the loss of blood and the lack of food, but my eyes stayed sharp.

I laughed bitterly. "Torture me, if you wish. I assure you Monsiuer, I've been through _worse_." I finished.

"Reallly doll. Well, isn't that just peachy. I like the ones that put up a _fight_-ah." He responded, his voice a dark and sinister drawl that made the air still.

My grin didn't fade. "You misunderstand. I fought to get out of hell once and it 'is not a pain I will repeat. You cannot do worse to me than what's already been done no matter how inventive or intelle-gent you are."

"I, uh doubt that." He said, his voice mock contrite.

I pulled out my gun in as soon as his eyes flickered away, and in moments he was on the ground under my foot. A scowl flashed over my taunt face, my head still feeling weightless. It was getting difficult to concentrate…

"You should've taken your chances when you had the upper hand, Monsieur Pietre." I said softly, my voice hard; all the bitter humor long gone. He grinned, his red scars stretching unpleasantly clashing with the white face paint. It was a disturbing and gruesome sight.

"You're not going to shoot me, I bet you haven't even, ah, killed anyone; have you doll-face?" He mocked, trying to goad me into making a mistake. My face didn't move or twitch in the slightest.

"I have. I've killed many. But I'm going to kill you. I'm not a murderer." I said, my accented words slipping across the air. His eyes didn't register shock, but something dark twisted in his soulless brown eyes that almost made me pause. I smiled humorlessly.

"With 'zat in mind. I never said I was against causing bodily harm." I said louder leading down swiftly and hitting him solidly across the face with my gun. His head snapped over, and I backed off quickly, not hesitating to run. I needed a head-start from that maniac, and I also needed bandages and food before I passed out.

I brusquely stalked into the city, not noticing the rain as I walked through a ruined part of town. My jaw tightened. I remembered when they used to have these areas back in France; before street scum were executed and the buildings were all knocked down and rebuilt as factories. Everything became so monotone. There were no poor. Just the rich and the middle class.

I sniffed rudely and tore my gaze away from the ruined buildings to continue on. It was starting to rain, so I ducked behind one of the dark alleys where several people seemed to be shooting up with heroine. I ignored it, and continued on, my head becoming noticeably lighter.

I noticed a grading, male voice aimed my way, but I didn't really catch it.

Before something grabbed my short hair and yanked me back.

I swung, gun out and shot as soon as I heard the man swear. He scurried off, clutching the joint between his shoulder and his neck before I turned and continued on.

In all honesty, I didn't really mean to shoot the poor bastard. It was just habit. Walking in the dark, and you hear something behind you swearing, you turned and shot. Period. Hopefully, you killed what you were aiming at. If not, well, you usually didn't stick around to see. That was my reality as a child. Kill or be killed, hide or be killed, steal or starve.

I snorted. I was out on a main road again, and it had become dark. I must've lost track of time…

Damn. I wasn't even drunk! What the fuck was up with that shit?!

I slowly shifted my creaking bones, lifting my arm to gently dab at my stomach. The blood flow had stopped by this time, but it was sore and my hand came back sticky and drenched in almost dried blood.

I frowned, and gathered my jacket around me. I desperately needed food. I'd have to steal money.

I quickly followed a couple, they were nicely dressed, and I picked out the woman's wallet from her purse before taking forty American dollars. I slyly replaced the wallet before walking across the street to a small café. I walked in, my head light and sat down. The waitress asked for my drink and I ordered a Coke. I really hadn't had the chance to drink one in America, and they no longer had them in France. Yeah.

Taking away soda? Sounds ridiculous doesn't it? It is. And let me tell you, being set loose on the streets as a kid with a major caffeine addiction WAS FUCKING TORTURE.

I ordered some random special. I didn't really know what they ate here, but my food got to me in no time, though it felt like I was detached from the world. It was so surreal. Like everything was turned on its side and sunken underwater. I ate my food as fast as possible, cleaning my plate in minutes. I couldn't even really tell you what I'd eaten, but as soon as I ate the last bite I became sick, and rushed for the bathrooms.

I didn't even bother shutting the stall door before I puked, my meal all coming back up until I was just choking over the toilet. I flushed, gagging still before a voice caused me to look behind me.

"Uh, you okay?" A dark haired girl asked. She had bright eyes that glinted out from under black bangs and eyeliner.

"'I suppose so." I choked out, my voice rough and my accent thicker than usual.

"Yikes. Is that blood?" She asked, looking at my stomach apprehensively.

"'Is just a scratch." I answered, and she nodded, her eyes flashing as she sighed.

"Okay, if you say so. My names' Ren." Ren said, awkwardly waving before leaving. I leaned back, feeling worse than before I'd eaten. Hm, that's got to be the third person I met in this shit hole of a city that actually seems to give a shit about other life forms. I cracked a smile, and walked back to my table, ordering a light soup. Hopefully I wouldn't throw that up as well. Then again, my luck seemed to want to kick me in the ass lately.

I grimaced, drinking more of my refilled soda, feeling more in touch with reality.

Fine, luck can screw me over. I made my own luck anyway, if I believed in such stupid things. Luck was for stupid ass pansy's.

My soup came, and I paced myself, eating it slowly. It was overly salted and much heavier than soups I was used to, but it was better than that other stuff.

All of a sudden, a man in a suit sat in front of me, and I recognized him as Monsieur Wayne from the other day…however long ago that was.

"Hello again, you don't look so well, are you okay?" He asked, concerned, his dark stylish hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward.

"As 'okay' as ever Monsieur." I choked, feeling my stomach clench unpleasantly after the accented words hit the air.

He looked skeptical, and I didn't really fault him. I probably looked like death, ironically.

"So, I never caught you name last time…" He prompted, raising his eyebrow and watching me carefully.

"'Name is Mort." I said short, focusing on keeping my soup down instead of introducing myself fully like I usually did.

"That's French isn't it, for death?" Wayne supplied, and I nodded solemnly.

"Oui." I said, feeling hazy.

He cracked a smile, but I didn't return it. It was filled with charm and humor, something I'd seen only on television here. I felt woozy again.

"Are you sure you're alright, you look like you might need a hospital." He started, and I looked at him calmly.

"No, I'm fine Monsieur. I need no hospital." I said, my voice still a little scratchy. He looked at my clothes and saw the blood. He looked back up to me, his eyes widening.

"Do you even have a place to stay?" he asked, and I paused for a moment, my pride taking a blow.

"….No." I finally said, looking away.

"You're not well." Wayne stated, his dark eyes locked onto the blood stained rags covering my wound. My skin stretched tightly and uncomfortably over my face as I smiled. It probably didn't help seeing as I looked emaciated.

"I'm really alright," I repeated softly, feeling the world around me spin. Wayne fixed me with a look, pinning me down with dark eyes that were so unlike the clown freaks.

I felt the world start to blur around the edges, and my stomach plummeted. Wayne must've noticed something, because in seconds he was by my side, carefully helping me out of the booth and out of the restaurant. As soon as we were outside, my pride got the best of me, and I yanked out of his grasp. I tried to adjust my coat to hide my wound, but my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't. Suddenly, Wayne's concerned face appeared next to mine and darkness rose up to consume me.

I felt weightless, for awhile. Before I started dreaming.

I heard screams. Blood curdling, grief stricken screams. I was in a dark room, waiting for the next torture. Waiting patiently. They'd already destroyed my future, any family I might've had. I'd been starved, beaten, raped, drugged, they'd cut off my arm and stitched it back on with a hot needle. My hair was still shaved off. I'd lost count of the things they've done to me. I didn't know how long I'd be here.

I might be here forever. I could take the pain, and the fear. The mental torture just pissed me off. I'd been cut up pretty nasty when Cosette came to _visit_ me and I tried to kill her. Apparently, killing figure heads was off limits too. My bad.

Nothing they couldn't fix was done to me. After all, they wanted my cooperation to sway the people back in their favor.

Hmph. What idiots. This was the day before I escaped. They killed the old owner of the orphanage in front of me.

She was old, and had dark eyes that somewhat reminded me of Wayne's. They had that veiled kindness and humor in them. She was strict, and we always used to call her a hag behind her back, but she didn't really deserve it. I realized that when we were set out on the street. But live and let learn, right?

I twisted my wrists, trying to regain feeling in the one they'd reattached. I noticed something. An error on their part. The link in one of my cuff's was loose from all my pulling. My face remained impassive as I stood, breaking my chains. I grinned, and waited for them to come. They did, with tazers and gun's. I broke their necks and took their guns, running fast and killing anyone I encountered. I opened a door, and ran into a dark room. I couldn't see anything, but I kept running.

Until the floor fell out from under me, and I realized as I was falling that there was no chance of my escape. That I was doomed to stay in hell forever.

Until I woke up with a jolt, right before I hit the floor. I was in a room, a nice room, under a heavy beautiful quilt….without any clothes on.

Was I mad. Nah.

I WAS FUCKING PISSED.

And I don't even think that covered it.

I looked around, my light eyes burning as I realized I was hooked up to an I.V. I ripped it out, and went to stand up when Wayne appeared beside me. I blinked in surprise. I hadn't even heard him open or shut the door.

"You were severely dehydrated and you were pretty banged up." He said, his voice smooth. I glared at him, spiteful. I was not some lost puppy that couldn't take care of itself.

"I'm not some lost dog 'oo needs someone to look after 'zit." I hissed, moving to stand up, wrapping the blanket around me. Most people would've been grateful, but to me, this was an insult. I didn't need charity. I was fine.

Wayne folded his arms and smiled at me like I was a child. Anger flashed through me at the look; after all. It had been a long, long time since I'd been a child.

"You were sick, and passed out." He said pointedly, and I shot him a look.

"I need none of your _charity_. I zaid I was fine." I argued, my accent thickening. His smile gained sincerity.

"Let's just say I like helping people." Wayne said, his voice carrying faint traces of humor. I straightened, my eyes narrowing and softening some. I should…apologize. After all, when was the last time someone actually saved my life instead of the other way around? When was the last time someone was actually concerned with my well being? I suppressed a snort. Certainly it wasn't the clown freak.

"Then…I suppose I should thank you, Monsieur. It's been... a long time since someone actually gave a shit." I said, my voice low and sincere. My accent thankfully backed off some.

His smile faltered, before it came back charming as ever. He turned, gesturing to the closet behind him. "There's clothes in there for you." He said, before leaving. I sat down and stared at the mansion for a moment. It had elegant enameling on the ceiling, and I'd never been in such a beautiful place. I ran my hands through my short black hair, and let out a deep breath.

I stared hard at the offending tattoo on my wrist, and felt disgusted. My life was taken. I had no purpose. It was a hard thing to grasp, because all my life I've had a drive. Now, there was nothing.

I pushed away the thoughts. It wasn't something I liked to think about. I dug around in the closet and found only really classy dresses and there was one pair of red underwear. I face palmed. Really Wayne, really? At the very back I found one pair of designer dress pants, and a loose black sweater that covered my wrists but the back dropped low and exposed my tattoos.

I walked out of the closet, and out of the room cautiously. There was a beautiful white balcony with curling stairs to a tiled floor. An old man stood at the bottom of the stairs in a suit, his pale eyes regarding me with concern. I walked down slowly, my tired muscles stretching.

"Are you hungry Miss?" He asked, and I looked him distrustfully.

"No 'zank you Monsieur." I said lowly, eyeing him still. He smiled knowingly and inclined his head.

"I can promise you it's not poisoned Miss." He answered, his blue eyes shining with humor. I scowled, and drew back.

"Not very reassuring Alfred." Wayne called, stepping into the room.

"I suppose, Master Wayne, I was just glad you had the sense to bring her back here before you tried to stitch her up yourself." Alfred answered, and I cringed.

"What is that, on your back?" Wayne asked, gesturing behind me. I frowned.

"Tattoos." I answered shortly, my accent becoming more pronounced.

He fixed me with a look, and my jaw clenched. "I believe it iz a story for a diff-ur-ent time Monsieur." I said quietly, my voice flat. Wayne's look flashed to understanding and he turned to Alfred smiling.

"I do believe we'll take that breakfast now, Alfred." Wayne said, and the old man bowed curtly smiling back in a fatherly manner.

"Of course Master Wayne. I'll try not to make anything too heavy. I know how picky the French are when it comes to their food." He answered, before walking away. Wayne gestured to follow him up the stairs before leading me into what appeared to be a sitting room. I could only guess though, as I sat down in an elegant and antique arm chair.

"So it seems, we've got a lot to talk about." Wayne started, and my gaze slipped back to him slowly; hardening as I tensed.

"Do we Monsieur Wayne?" I replied, my body ready to bolt out of the room.

"Well you can start by telling me why you were walking around injured with a gun." He began, his deep eyes becoming more closed off as he waited. I scowled and my demeanor grew colder.

"No." I replied shortly, my jaw clenching and my dark hair ghosting across my face. He leaned back and took a deep breath, smiling humorlessly.

"Well, I could always tell the police…" He prompted, and my scowl darkened as my eyes burned with anger.

"Fine." I spat, my accent lilting the words.

* * *

So, I can't decide between Wayne or Joker for Mort. So, if you could review and tell me who you'd pick that'd be awesome! Thanks for reading you all, I'm open to any and all suggestions and don't feel bad if you want to criticize me.


	6. Restless Dead

Restless Dead

Revolutionary or Terrorist.

"I never walk around without a gun." I answered, venom lacing my words spitefully as I answered Wayne's question.

His eyebrow raised, and I became painfully aware of his heritage; of just who Wayne was. The beautiful old house, the money. Even his title around the city. He was most certainly a _somebody_; someone with a heritage and a legacy. The 'Prince' of Gotham. So unlike me. My light brown eyes flickered to the window where soft light was shining through. I suddenly felt so displaced, so lost in this country it was overwhelming. My eyes slid to the floor as the feeling intensified.

I missed my home, the cursed place it was. I shoved the feeling away roughly. It was stupid to dwell on such stupid feelings.

"You're not registered as a citizen of any country." He said, his voice tactful. I looked up and our eyes met. Mine were cold and unforgiving, giving nothing away while his were curious, calm and wise. I said nothing, my face emotionless.

"Who are you-?" Wayne started, before I stood never breaking eye contact.

"I'd like my jacket back. T'en I'm going to leave, Monsieur Wayne. T'ank you for helping me." I cut him off curtly, and he stood as well, I turned to leave but he grabbed my shoulder.

"Who are you?" He asked again, his voice lower. I looked at him from the corner of my eye.

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want ze answers to, Monsieur Wayne." I answered, wrenching my shoulder out of his grip as I stormed out. My face was pulled into a deep frown as I stalked down the stairs, my walk dangerous and serious. Alfred was at the bottom of the stairs, holding my jacket, which I took from him. My scowl was dark as I walked outside into the rain, my hair blowing away from my face. I threw my jacket on, and paused, looking again at the offending mark on my wrist. Hopefully, my gun would be waiting for me in my jacket pocket.

If I had been a weaker woman, I would've cried. But I didn't, instead, my eyes hardened burning out of my pale and gaunt face. I hated it. That mark, which my already tattered and rugged life. I wondered briefly if Wayne had seen it. Hopefully not…he already seemed eager enough to turn me over to the police.

I hated it so fucking much.

I turned to glance back at the manor, taking in the dark windows before turning away again. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know where I was going.

I guess I'd have to get used to the feeling seeing as I've lost my purpose in life.

I had a feeling it was going to be a long walk to a dry alleyway where I could sleep.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, searching for my gun when I realized it wasn't there. I turned on my heel, my tight skin stretching over my bones when I noticed a dark car waiting behind me. In the storm, I didn't even hear it approach. It pulled up to me and stopped.

The passenger window rolled down slowly, but my sneer didn't falter. It was Wayne. I suppose you could only guess how _surprised_ and _elated_ I was. Yeah right.

"I want my gun back." My voice called through the rain, harsh and unforgiving as usual. He smiled in return like what I said was funny; which, if he still wants his balls to be attached, it wouldn't be.

"I can't do that. But if you'd be reasonable-" He started, the timbre of his voice smooth and convincing. Well, almost convincing.

"_I_ am being reas-on-able Monsieur Wayne." I said, my words ripping through the noisy storm savagely as my accent thickened.

"Now, Ms. Mort, we can talk all about how you're _not_ getting your illegal and unregistered gun back, and you can ride with me back to the manor." Wayne smiled, his eyes warm. A frown darkened my face, and I turned sharply walking away from him determinedly. I didn't need the stupid rich boy, I didn't need anyone. I couldn't trust him; and the only thing he wanted was my secrets.

My sneer darkened as I heard the car follow me, and pull up beside me. My anger doubled and I could sense him stop the car. Everything fell away as unwanted memories flooded me. I grit my teeth, and pushed tried to push them away.

Running away, and trying to keep my secrets safe reminded me too much of when the government, the Vestes Noir caught up with me. It was raining then too, and they cornered me. I was bleeding, but I refused to be knocked unconscious or fall. I stayed on my feet through the rain of bullets, the tear gas and even the more manual beatings. My blood must've stained the ground, I'd bled so much that day. I remember the shame and betrayal I felt when I saw Cosette and Loup standing behind them, their expressions smug. I finally saw the cowardice hiding behind they're bright eyes. The malice; and the greed.

I should've expected as much, given their names. Loup and Cosette: the wolf and the useless one. They used me. My life. What I'd made my own brother and sister; sold me out and murdered my army. No, not my army. I loved every single one of the 300 like they were my family. Let's face it, they were my family.

All of us, we were sold out by two hungry dogs on the run. If it's one thing I've learned, it's that hungry dogs aren't loyal.

Something grabbed my arm, jerking me out of my anger and thoughts. I whirled instinctively, my face hard and set, as my fist flew towards the person.

It was Wayne, his unwrinkled expensive suit becoming ruined in the rain. His eyes holding a deep emotion as he unflinchingly caught my fist. My eyes widened, surprised, my anger momentarily forgotten as we stood there. The rain pattered around me, and I realized how cold I was as I yanked my hand back with a snarl, and turned again to walk away.

"Mort!" He called.

"Do not speak to me unless you give me back my belongings!" I hissed, not bothering to turn back. He grabbed my arm again, and I whirled, backhanding him solidly across the face. Pain erupted around my wound and I hunched over slightly.

Fuck that hurt.

Wayne's eyes flickered down to my stomach and he smiled warmly. "Better be careful, you popped a stitch."

I just glared hatefully as he moved closer, his movements graceful even in a ruined suit. I felt warm blood slide down my stomach, the rain washing it onto the gravel beneath my feet.

"Be reasonable, the least I could do is fix your stitches. Then we can talk about whether or not you'll get your gun back." He continued smoothly, his voice charismatic and suave in the rain. He reached out, offering his hand to help me.

I frowned, thinking about it. I didn't have anything to fix the stitches, or anywhere to stay. Hell, I didn't even have my gun. My eyes burned, before dimming as my anger died down. I'd have to go with him to at least get my gun back. I nodded, and walked past him toward the car, rudely dismissing his extended hand. I sat down in the passenger seat as Wayne drove us back to his manor.

The entire way, he kept glancing at me from the corner of his eye, like he wanted to say something.

I held back a snort. Too fucking bad, I wasn't saying shit.

Finally, we stopped at the mansion. I clenched my jaw and got out of the car slowly, careful of the stitches. It seemed like I was in more pain today than the other day. I scoffed. Of course, with my luck.

Wayne appeared next to me, offering his arm to help me up the short stairs to his manor. I glanced at it distastefully before walking past him. I just wanted to get this over with, there was no point in me staying here to try and make friends. After all, I already knew how friends could backstab you.

It was cold once I got in the manor, but the chill felt good on my various wounds. Fucking psychotic clowns…

"Follow me, and I'll get you new clothes and fix your stitches." He said calmly, walking back upstairs. I followed him wearily, my clothes feeling heavy.

He led me up three flights of stairs, before ducking into a bedroom. He pulled out some clothes and tossed them to me. Wayne turned his back to me politely and I changed.

"You're going to need to leave your shirt off for me to fix the stitches." Wayne stated, his voice sympathetic. I blinked, pulling on the jeans.

"That iz fine." I answered, and he turned around, looking carefully at my blood soaked stomach. He gestured for me to lie down, and I glared suspiciously. Lying down would put me in a compromising position and if the man knew who I was, he could easily knock me out and send me back to France.

I. Was. Not. Going. Back. To. Jail.

**Ever** again. I would die first. Wayne's dark eyes flickered up to me and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"I give you my word that I won't do anything other than fix your stitches." He said soothingly, but my glare didn't fade.

I laid back on the bed, stretching out and waiting.

"This is going to hurt." He said, pulling a needle and some medical thread out. I smiled darkly.

"I 'ave been through much worse Monsieur Wayne." I replied dryly as he pulled the needle through my skin. I'll admit, it stung. It was over soon, thankfully.

"Call me Bruce." He said dismissively. I didn't say anything sitting up and putting on my shirt.

"Where'd you get all those scars from?" Bruce asked, and I snorted.

"Where'd you get all t'ese questions from?" I shot back, I stood, grabbing my wet jacket.

He just looked at me smiling. I scowled. The man always seemed to be so smiley. It was very irritating.

"I want my gun back Monsieur. Then I will leave and be out of your 'air."I went on my voice rude and acidic. I was tired of this rich boy's games. I didn't need this. I just wanted to be alone and drink away my sorrows until I died.

"Did you shoot someone with it?" He asked slowly, his dark eyes becoming colder and more calculated. I sniffed dismissively.

"Of course I shot someone wit' zit. Why else would I need a gun?" I answered, my voice dry and lacking patience.

"Did you kill someone with it?" He asked again, darkly serious. My lips thinned into a frown before I out right snarled as my anger grew. How dare he insult me like this, how dare he look down on me because I have killed people. I did what I had to.

"'Ow dare you judge me, you spineless rich' boy. You know not'ing of what I 'ave been through." I grumbled, my pride flaring as my voice tore through the air. "I bet your life 'ere 'as been wonderful, you've never starved or gone 'ungry. You've never 'ad want for anything. You never 'ad people trying to kill you just because of who you are! All you need to know iz t'at I did only what I had to." I turned, storming once again out of the room and down stairs. I was so angry, I was seeing red.

He grabbed my shoulder again and I flashed my fist towards his face, intending to punch him in the face. He caught my hand before it connected and brow's drew together in anger.

"Get ze fuck out of my face." I whispered, my voice holding lightning hot anger as I tried to pull my wrist back. Wayne's dark eyes softened some.

"I apologize." He said shortly, releasing my hand. I made a sound of disgust in the back of my throat before turning again to walk out of the house.

"Do you have anywhere to stay?" Wayne asked again, following me through the magnificent halls.

"No."

Bruce sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. I held back a snort. Why the hell was he tired? I just got into a fist fight with an insane clown, and got stitched up _twice_ not to mention, I haven't eaten in god knows long. Damn I was hungry.

"I apologize, if you need a place to stay, why not stay here?" He corrected smoothly. I frowned.

"You kindness knows _no_ bounds, does zit Monsieur Wayne?" I asked sarcastically. "I am not some dog off 'ze street t'at loves 'ze first one to 'elp it. I do not need your kindness." I finished, my voice harsh and rough with spite and anger.

"I didn't mean that. You're free to leave when you wish. Alfred will prepare you dinner, you look like you might need it." He went on, undeterred.

Fine, whatever. It doesn't matter if I stay or leave, I've got nowhere to go anyway.

"Merci." I said shortly, and he smiled charmingly. I had to hold back my smirk when he turned and I saw the red mark from where I hit him earlier.

I followed him into a room, and damn near shut the door in his face. Or tried to. He kept talking anyway, which was really getting annoying. I didn't need his pity, I said that earlier. I wasn't some rich man's charity project.

"Like I said dinner will-" Wayne started again as I stood in the doorway, attempting to close the door.

"Yes, yes fine," I started airily cutting him off. Right now I really needed to be alone. He left this time, his footsteps softly fading away down the hall, and I collapsed onto the floor.

My mind was reeling. I should've left, what if he called the cops? I looked up, running my hands through my dark hair. There was a window, if I fell correctly, I could survive the fall...

Why couldn't the bastard just give me my damn gun back?! I _needed_ it. It was one of the only links left to my past. Besides my tattoos. Damn it all!

The blood rushed through my veins as I strained my ears, trying to listen for any indication that he'd rat me out. My whole body was tensed ready to run when I heard him walk back upstairs. I forcibly relaxed my body, standing when someone knocked on the door. I took a deep breath, steadying myself so I wouldn't make them suspicious.

I opened the door, my face a cold mask. The old man, Alfred, handed me a tray filled with heavy American food. I took it passively, and he smiled kindly.

"You're far too thin Miss. You looked 'as if you haven't eaten anything in days." He started conversationally. My light brown eyes flickered up, hardening.

"'Zat is because I 'ave not. Good night Monsieur." I corrected softly, my voice as cold as my visage. The old man nodded, his blue eyes holding wisdom before walking off. I shut the door and sat on the floor to eat when I saw that he had given me wine.

I may be an alcoholic, but I can't bring myself to drink wine, champagne, or anything of that nature. The night before the massacare, we all drank sweet wine and…the idea of drinking it without all of those honorable people just turns my stomach.

I pushed it to the side and ate everything. I didn't realize I was that hungry, but not eating for a few days will do that. After that, I crawled into what must've been the softest bed I'd ever slept on, and went to sleep.

Without the alcohol, the nightmares were no longer held at bay.

I saw a child ripped apart in front of me; in that dark interrogation room. I screamed, my pride broken as tears poured down my face. She was small, with big brown eyes and red hair. Her tongue had been ripped out and her hands cut off. She stumbled around, gurgling in pain unable to scream. I tugged hard against the bonds, the handcuffs cutting into my skin.

Then one of the guards raised his gun, apparently his superior was tired of the charade, and shot the girl.

The girl was shocked, her pained expression relaxing as she fell back. I bellowed, my voice coarse against the smooth silence.

Someone pulled my short hair back, their fingers close to my scalp as they breathed into my ear. I pulled myself together easily, it was getting easier to become more numb as the days went on in this place. I wanted to snort as they yanked harder on my almost non-existent hair.

I was just starting to grow it back too. What a spineless little bitch.

"Just give up Mort. It's all you 'ave to do. Just join France, and you will be pardoned, no one else will 'ave to die." Loup's voice whispered in my ear. I snarled before laughing haughtily.

"You are a fool, you back-stabbing piece of shit. Live your life as a mindless puppet; I do not care. I made my choice ze day ze _real_ government of France fell and I will stand by it." I rasped. "Go back to your whore, you ingrate dickless boy!" I hissed, yanking my head forward. He tsked behind me, and I ignored it.

My head slammed into the table as another innocent man was dragged before me. Another ally to be slaughtered before me. He smiled when the cut out his eyes, and whispered something before he died. It was lost in my screams of anger. I grew silent through the pain, even as a hot needle tore through me and the room became dark and silent. I wouldn't scream when they hurt me. My pride was too great, I wouldn't be weak. But I wasn't ashamed to yell when innocent people were hurt.

My screams abruptly stopped when something grabbed me, and I swung at it. My fist connected, and my mind exploded. Without thinking or even being fully awake I tackled the person, pinning them to the floor as I strangled them.

Whoever it was in the darkness was pretty strong, and held back my wrists from their throat as the coughed.

"Mort, calm down. It's me." The man said, and I stilled, trying to glare through the darkness. He let go of my wrists, and I snapped into action, my fist immediately pressing into his throat to keep him still.

"Vous S'appelle?" I cut shortly, my body tensed. This man's voice sounded familiar but I couldn't place it.

"I don't understand." He replied calmly, and I leaned back quickly. Whoops. Sorry Bruce.

I stood up, and heard him stand up as well before he turned the light on in the room. I crossed my arms and tried to ignore the awkward atmosphere as Wayne rubbed his neck. It didn't really work…

"Why did you wake me up?" I asked, remembering my English. Bruce's dark eyes flickered to mine before he answered.

"You were having a nightmare." He said simply, and I turned away to glare at the window. Stupid screaming.

"Why'd you attack me?" He asked, his voice stronger and firmer this time. I shrugged.

"Force of 'abit, you might say." I answered airily. Regret worked it's way into my gut, and I grit my teeth. The feeling was uncomfortable to say the least, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt the emotion towards someone.

How irritating.

"Sorry for waking you up." I said gruffly, my accent dying down some. "And, I'm sorry for attacking you." I finished softer, turning towards the window. How stupid, apologizing for something that wasn't even my fault because of some stupid feeling.

I guess it's better than being a sociopath though…

"I was already awake anyway. I tried calling for you, but you wouldn't wake up." Bruce answered calmly, coming to stand next to me. I nodded, not really feeling like saying anything. For whatever reason, I still felt guilty. Damn emotions.

It was starting to get light out, lavender light creeping it's way through the tree's through the window.

"Might as well get us breakfast then," Wayne muttered before leaving me. I flickered my fingers dismissively while my mind reeled.

Why was he up so late, or early? What exactly was the rich boy doing? My eyes narrowed and I flicked my hair out of my face.

It didn't matter now. What mattered was getting my gun back and finding some way to knock off the dumbass clown freak.

Killing clowns; getting back to my home country. Seems I'm a busy woman.

I shrugged it off. Better to be busy anyway. I turned and looked out the window again to see Bruce disappear down a well in the twilight. He was hard to make out against the grey of everything, but I was sure it was him. My eyes hardened as I slipped out my room, down the stairs and out of the house to find him.


End file.
